


Aftermath

by TenchiKai



Series: From Russia, With Love [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 17:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10417788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenchiKai/pseuds/TenchiKai
Summary: (Part 3 of the From Russia, With Love series)He’d get better. After all, the hurricane that was Victor would have to die eventually. Even the worst storms have a lifespan. The aftermath wouldn’t be forever.He repeated that to himself like a mantra, but it felt like a lie every time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (TenchiKai)
> 
> Please read the rest of the series before you get into this! <3 I suppose you could read it alone but there are things you won't understand! <3

“How can you make that better?” The words left his lips before he thought about it. Before he could control his anger, before he could process anything. Before he could consider what they'd mean.

And Victor had left the room, metaphorical tail between his legs. After he watched him go, Yuuri had cried himself into exhaustion. Emptied himself of his anger, guilt, and loneliness, right into his pillow. This wasn’t too abnormal for him.

What was abnormal was that Victor was gone the next morning, when he was ready to maybe talk and the feelings had dulled. Disappeared. He had left nothing of himself behind. No note, not even an apology. There wasn’t a single strand of sliver hair to prove to Yuuri that it hadn’t been some sort of dream. Maybe it was a dream.

Of course he was too good to be true.

The aftermath was there, even so. Silver hair and blue eyes were invading his memories. Bleeding into his thoughts, coloring his words and actions from wherever he had run to. A song that ripped him to shreds here, a well-meaning but excruciating touch there. A joke that he said once would slip from his lips like it belonged to him.

Every time he was pulled back into those memories, that warm, comfortable feeling, he wanted to break something. Maybe shatter himself. He wanted to scream, cry. Wanted to be angry. But more than anything, he wanted to reach out. Hear his voice again. Feel his hands on him. His … lips.

Tell him to turn around, tell him to come back.

Tell him that he was his everything, too.

But then the cloak of longing would tatter, he would surface from the pool of memory, and he remembered. Remembered the damage Victor had done with his selfish, thoughtless choices. He was more angry for the child than himself or the woman that was his wife. Would the baby grow up with a father to look after him? To guide him?

A brief daydream of a child skating on ice made him smile.

And then reality struck him, again. It kept doing that. It was like a knife every time. He desperately wished he could just hate him.

He knew his life hadn’t been that long, but in all his years he’d never felt this lost. Like he’d been stripped of something so significant. Something that could have mattered so much. In another world, he mused. In some other universe.

It was ironic, that at times like this he’d usually run to the ice. Skate to clear his mind, to let the feelings flow from his body, through his muscles, until they were gone completely. Ironic because he couldn’t bear to see, must less go to, Ice Castle. He couldn’t face the memories they made there. The pool of memory was at its deepest there.

His muscles had stopped burning from the training sessions long ago. The softness was already returning to his features. For once, he didn't care.

It had only been a month since he’d left. Only a month.

He’d get better. After all, the hurricane that was Victor would have to die eventually. Even the worst storms have a lifespan. The aftermath wouldn’t be forever.

He repeated that to himself like a mantra, but it felt like a lie every time.

Why was the hole he left behind getting bigger? Why weren’t the memories fading?

He found it, the next day. A plain black shirt that he had worn. Instead of tossing it out like he should have done, he kept it. Hung it up in the back his closet, hiding it like he was ashamed of its existence.  He didn’t keep it because the scent lingered. It wasn’t because he was lonely and scared that no one would make him feel that way again. No, he was _fine._

He told himself he’d throw it away when he was ready. When the memories stopped pulling him towards something he couldn’t have, and the feelings faded.

He never did. It just stayed here, a reminder of what almost was.

* * *

 

It had been years, and he was resigned and comfortable in his loneliness. He spent his days taking care of his aging parents, the hot spring, and himself.

It was in this state of mind, that he received an invitation to coach a camp in America. “I guess I have some life left in me.” He had surprised himself by actually wanting to go. Wanting to leave his comfortable and safe life, even for a moment.

But it was the universe, speaking to him again. Pulling him. Valentin was an amazing child. Long, flowing silver hair and green eyes that shimmered. Inside of him was a fire he’d seen before, a fire that belonged to _him._

Somewhere inside of him, he knew. But avoided making the connection. It wasn’t until he heard that voice again, that he was sure.

“‘Val! Valentin!”

This was the child. The child that he was so afraid would get left behind. But he wasn’t at all. In fact, here _he_ was, an undoubtedly proud smile written on his face. Come to collect what he needed to protect, take care of.

He ran, as much as you can run in skates, to him.

The conversation passed in a blur. He wasn’t sure what he had said, but he knew he was saying something. His hand flew to him, his hair. The same way his legs had moved of their own accord. It was more than a little frightening, this loss of control.

It woke him out of his haze, a small kiss on his palm. He was right here, and he was leaving. The years had dulled that pull, that ache. But he still wished for it. Wished for him. His lips.

Maybe, maybe it was finally time to throw away that old black shirt.


End file.
